“How much can I take off before I get weighed?” She asked.
A common question, I countered with my pat reply, “You are limited by your own standard of decency.” When I am queried about how much clothing one can shed, I know that the person I am about to weigh is having a rough time; I try and deliver the reply with humor.
She pondered that for a brief moment, forced a chuckle, then faced the scale and began shedding everything that weighed more than her earrings; should the jewelry have been more substantial, I assume she would have rid herself of them also.
“OK, let’s get it over with,” she said dropping her jacket and purse on to a nearby chair and sliding out of her shoes. “I’m really scared.” Most dieters prefer a root canal or IRS tax audit to facing the scale on a day when the number inches northward. Judging by the lack of enthusiasm she showed in today’s weight check, I would not have lost money should I have bet that she fell within that category.
“This won’t be pretty,” she whimpered, “I’ve been really bad.”
“Bad?” I asked. “Did you beat up people in the streets? Rob banks? Were you engaged in an illicit affair, inflicting severe emotional distress on your husband and children?”
“Well, no, of course not. But, I just didn’t stop eating all weekend. I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I didn’t care. There’s no other way to describe it; I was just awful. I can’t believe what an idiot I am.”
